Dil Beparwah | ✔

seventeen

||CHAPTER 17||
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┊A R V I K A┊

Liquid sloshed in the champagne glass when he rolled its stem, bringing it to his lips. Karan did have temper issues, but he never liked being called out on them. "I can handle the business," he shrugged defensively. "I've been doing it for... months now."

Aryan Oberoi leaned in for a dramatic effect. "Yes, Karan. That you certainly are. Question is, are you enjoying it? Does it give you the thrill, the zing, the spark?"

At this point, I couldn't point out if his assessment of my friend was simply clinical. He was a psychological therapist, a darn good one at that, or so claimed his—our—proud grandmother. But from the flirtatious gleam in his grey eyes, one I'd known all too well from the years we dated, I knew his psychological examination of Karan Bahl extended far beyond his degree.

But Karan wasn't someone who took intrusions sportingly. His discomfort was pretty evident by the way he clenched his jaw. His face with his beard shaved off was giving him a look I wasn't accustomed to. Tipping his head back, he chugged down what remained of his third flute of champagne and turned to me. "I'm gonna need more of this."

My thumb pointed behind me, towards the grand kitchen of the Oberoi mansion and with a brief nod of dismissal, he set off in that direction. He was probably going to need an entire bottle of it if he were to meet the other half of this family. The party had just begun anyway.

"Tone it down, will you?" I brought my glass to my lips as we stood by the closed screen doors that lead to the backyard. It had been raining the entire day, and I couldn't help but draw an irony here. The skies always seemed to rain on my step-father's parade, literally.

Aryan shrugged innocently, mirth clear in his demeanor. "I'll have you know that that was a session people pay a fortune for."

"Oh, I do know," I folded one arm under my chest, cradling the glass in the other. "And by the end of this party, so will everyone in this room."

A bashful smile flitted across his face when he followed my gaze. Seated gracefully on the chaise lounge was his grandmother, and from what our ears could strain out of the conversation she seemed to be having with her peers, she could have qualified as a human resume of her grandson. "You're right, I should tone it down."

I wanted to tell him that he shouldn't feel embarrassed about it. She was proud of him, and was expressing it. In words, in mannerisms, in gesticulations, in proper conversations. Sure, I wasn't one of her biggest fans, and the feelings were reciprocated every now and then. However, in a world like ours, she was not just appreciating his achievements, but also validating his efforts. Somehow, that meant so much more.

I wondered if Daadi would have been proud of us—me and Arnav. Of Arnav, she definitely would have been, for he did achieve a lot of things—in a fair manner. And fair wasn't how businesses operated. I was the proof of it. I would have disappointed her. I was probably disappointing her, for knowing the facts and yet negotiating with Mr. Oberoi. Being ignorant just for a taste of another exquisite bitter.

"For Karan," I cleared my throat, "It's a constant conflict between racing and business." I don't know why I kept discussing Karan. I shouldn't have, it was none of his business. Maybe I just didn't want Aryan to smell this sudden jealousy—a feeling that never got enough of me.

But psycho-analyzing every one was his profession for god sake, and he had known me longer than the person in question. "What makes you think that? Do you pick on his conflicts, compare them with yours?"